Conductor Of Light
by Belldere
Summary: Sherlock's heart was pounding peculiarly and unfamiliarly in anticipation and other unidentified emotions he would probably need John to explain to him later as he ran through dozens of theories of John's reactions and boiled down to only two which mattered: forgiveness or rejection. It was all a question of which one he would receive.


At first it almost felt like a breakthrough in a case, the long years of his great hiatus was finally at an end and he could return home to Mrs Hudson's baking that he wouldn't eat and John's insistences of sleep that he would ignore.

He could go home and wash the blood from his hands that never seemed to come off easily, maybe John might help him.

Sherlock expected the jittery natural high he felt to carry him all the way to 221b where he might just have one biscuit, for Mrs Hudson's sake not because he was hungry and maybe take a short nap on the couch only to appease John.

Unfortunately thoughts of John, though they had plagued him throughout his entire mission as though it were the Doctor who had thrown himself from the building and subsequently had decided to haunt him, became altered during the long journey back to London.

It came as something of a shock that Sherlock had absolutely no idea how his blogger was going to react to his resurrection. It irked him that he didn't know something about John even after how closely they had lived and worked together for the, all too short, time they had known each other.

He knew how Mrs Hudson would react. She would most probably jump from fright and quite possibly hurl something heavy at his head like one of those ridiculous ornaments she had sitting on her mantle, then she would wrap him in a hug that he would tolerate, not at all happily sink into it, while she cried into his chest.

He had absolutely no doubt that Martha Hudson would forgive him in a heartbeat, but John never failed to surprise him so Sherlock knew there would be almost no way to anticipate his reaction to Sherlock standing in their living room waiting impatiently for him to return home from the surgery, and, of course, he absolutely refused to guess.

Sherlock hadn't quite worked himself up to admit that he had missed John badly although his body and mind had betrayed him dozens of times during the years he had been gone by turning to consult the doctor or even waiting for the smile and praise he had grown accustomed to only to realise that he wasn't there at all.

At first Mycroft had given him updates of his three friends lives but it soon became unbearable to hear about how Lestrade was struggling to get through his probation and the possibility of the end of his career, he couldn't stand hearing that Mrs Hudson had cried herself to sleep every night since he had left and been mobbed several times by reporters as she tried to leave the flat for grocceries, and John.

It wasn't a surprise to hear that John had been trying to be the strong one, how he had put up all facades of moving on and even helped others through their own turmoil and grief but anyone who knew him well could see he was cracking, breaking apart on the inside but pushing it down to fight another day.

It still somewhat amazed Sherlock that his supposed passing could have an effect on anyone, much less the extent of his friend's grief.

His bones ached for London, the place he belonged and he found himself leaning forward impatiently in his airplane seat in a childish attempt to be closer sooner, perhaps to make the plane fly faster through sheer force of will.

When the plane finally touched down in Heathrow, Sherlock was the first person off and though he would admit it was good to be back the hollow aching didn't disappear, rather it pulled him out the door, moving as fast as he could, and towards Baker Street.

He was tempted to skip the hassle of finding a cab and take the car Mycroft had sitting, just the right amount of obscure, outside the airport, but he knew he would then have to waste time talking to Mycroft for an hour or so and he simply had better things to do with his time then to placate his barely tolerable brother.

It was his irritation at Mycroft that made up Sherlock's mind against taking his hospitality, not at all the fact that he wanted John to be the first one to see him back in London. That wasn't it in the least.

He climbed into a cab and was speeding towards home within minutes having bribed the cabbie with double the money if she could get him there in half the time. After a valiant effort Sherlock tossed the contents of his wallet over to her without caring much that she didn't quite make the time limit.

He slipped out of the cab and looked to the familiar sight of the green door that he had, of course, kept the key to. Sherlock didn't waste any time in entering the house nor in climbing the stairs. He knew that Mrs Hudson had popped out to the shops, most likely for milk from the smell of bland tea that lingered in the hallway.

The ache in his chest had subsided somewhat on entering his old flat which had become hideously organised thanks to John's absentminded military standards having seeped through his bedroom door and into the rest of the flat but Sherlock couldn't be too unhappy about this development, it would take him under thirteen minutes to have his organised chaos back in place.

Sherlock dithered in the doorway, unsure where his place was in the John-filled flat. He settled for observing what he could about John from the room that had once just held 'our things' not just his or Johns.

Unfortunately he didn't glean too much information on his friend that he hadn't already known and began to look for the little things that John may have kept of him instead. Purely for scientific insight into John's thought processes on thing he considered important to keep and Sherlock's definition. He was not, Sherlock tried to convince himself, being sentimental.

His Stradivarius was still there, sitting carefully atop the mantle next to his skull Yorick, his laptop was also sitting on the coffee table close to his chair and the smiley face on the wall hadn't been taken down or papered over either.

It was… good to see remnants of his life were still important to John and had been left despite their owner not having been there for all those years. Sherlock's stomach lurched unexpectedly; he suspected a leftover effect from the flight. Where was John already?

Sherlock had just decided to sit in his chair until John returned when he heard a rattle of keys in the door and steps, much too heavy to be Mrs Hudson but still achingly familiar, make their way up the stairs. He stood, not wanting John to be more alarmed than he already would be if he sprang up out of nowhere and waited for his friend to make his way into the lounge.

Sherlock's heart was pounding peculiarly and unfamiliarly in anticipation and other unidentified emotions he would probably need John to explain to him later as he ran through dozens of theories of John's reactions and boiled down to only two which mattered: forgiveness or rejection.

It was all a question of which one he would receive.

Tired. That was the only word to really describe the familiar face and gait of the doctor as he entered the room and shrugged out of his jacket. Sherlock couldn't even begin to describe how good it felt to see John again; no matter his aversion to emotions he couldn't bring himself to push them away this time.

John didn't look his usual kind of tiredness. This was… worse. John looked like a man who had had to rebuild his life one too many times and was running out of energy to pick up the pieces that wouldn't quite fit together like they used to. Sherlock's chest tightened painfully.

Sherlock barely had time to rememorize his friend's appearance, much less analyse him, when John froze halfway through hanging up his coat. After a moment he finished the movement and turned slowly to face Sherlock who was still hovering by his chair.

A small smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's lips "John."

John didn't respond to his name, he just stared as though he weren't really seeing anybody until Sherlock took a tentative step forward, smile fading from his face, and the doctor's unfocused eyes snapped blankly to his.

A small shudder ran through Sherlock as he looked upon the other man's face. He knew it was all wrong. John was supposed to be smiling or angry or upset or smug, he wore his heart on his sleeve and his emotions on his face but right now, Sherlock couldn't see anything, couldn't deduce anything, from the deadened expression and empty eyes that didn't fit the man in front of him.

"John?" Sherlock repeated, not even sparing the time to remark on how much he hated repetition, just trying to prompt a reaction out of John who did nothing but walk slowly over to the detective and peer unnervingly into his eyes.

John then picked up one of his wrists to feel for a pulse, glancing down at his watch to be accurate, and once he was satisfied he then silently pressed two fingers to the one in his neck. Sherlock stayed completely still and unresponsive as John performed, what might possibly have been a fully body medical exam, checking every tiny bruise or scar that dotted his arms and face, all in complete silence before dropping his arms and stepping away from Sherlock with a small nod.

Then, without a word, John turned on his heel and marched noiselessly up the stairs to his room leaving Sherlock to gape after him. This was not one of the scenarios he had anticipated.

Sherlock listened intently to the movements upstairs and hoped that John was simply pacing from his dresser to his bed and debated following him up there and forcing him to stop whatever he was doing, but he decided against it.

When John bustled down the stairs a moment later with a small bag in hand, Sherlock knew that it was a mistake coming here. He should have stayed dead; he should never have come back. John's lack of forgiveness was much more painful than just staying away and dreaming of home. If John of all people couldn't forgive him or even hear him out then he didn't deserve forgiveness.

He stays frozen to the spot in the middle of their lounge unable to take his eyes off John while he made his way to the door and for once words utterly fail him. In this crucial moment when he needed them most, the words would not come, could not wade through the crippling emotions he detested so much and wouldn't have John around to explain any more.

John opened the door but before he could walk through it he sighed and turned to face Sherlock, the blank look finally leaving his eyes to make way for exhaustion and wrenching sadness.

"I-I just need a break" he announced quietly "we can talk tomorrow if you want."

But Sherlock didn't want him to go, even if they didn't talk his first night back should be with John at least in the building, he took a step forward "John I-"

"Just not tonight Sh-Sherlock" Sherlock frowned at the stumble over his name and it only deepened when John turned back towards the open door.

"John, just stay, we don't even need to be in the same room, just… stay... Please." There, he had said please, now John had to listen to him.

John didn't respond for a long time, and was still not looking at him when he said flatly "I'm really happy you're alive Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully but he knew that being glad somebody wasn't dead and wanting to spend time with them were two completely different things. So he stood by, showing as little emotion on his face as he usually would and waited for John's next words or his impending exit.

John had just started to move out the door when Sherlock blurted out "where will you go?"

John just turned around and smiled a tiny rueful smile that made Sherlock want to smile in return to see if he could prompt a bigger one.

"I'll probably just ask Mrs Hudson if I could sleep on her couch." He admitted. "I can't- if I go too far then I won't be able to check on you. Make sure you don't disappear again." He shouldered his bag and a tiny bud of hope that he and John might be alright began to grow. "Now go get some sleep" Captain Watson ordered tiredly with a little of his old concern seeping into his voice "you look worse than I do."

Sherlock couldn't help it; he beamed at this small sign of the old John and did what he was told, knowing his best friend would be just downstairs in he needed to see him.

There would be a time to explain later, time for Sherlock to fix John and get back to normal, or what was normal for them.

That night Sherlock slept better than he had for a very long time, knowing John was still with him and finally being back where he belonged had knocked him right out after all those years of restlessness, his transport had earned a break.

It also helped that John had checked on him several times during the night, driving away the darkness like only he could.

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**A/N: Ooook this is my first finished Sherlock fic and I actually think it turned out ok... I hope. Anyway if you made it this far thank you for reading and leave a review if you can be bothered but try not to break my heart like the wait for season three is.**


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